


Dyed in the Wool

by SummerNightmares (BlackDog9314)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, The Wincest is Mostly Implied, Traumatized Dean Winchester, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog9314/pseuds/SummerNightmares
Summary: "Nothing's gonna change that hopeless feelingI get when you say you'll understandand I know you can't."
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Dyed in the Wool

It happens when Sam and Dean are staying at Bobby’s house for a few days. In one of the upstairs bedrooms there are a few boxes in a tiny closet that Dean left for safekeeping almost fifteen years earlier. It’s been years since he so much as thought of the boxes: out of sight, out of mind. But he stumbles upon them by accident when he’s looking for an older pair of shoes he knows is somewhere in Bobby’s house, and as soon as he sees the three cardboard containers taking up room in the far-most corner of the closet, he feels something cold and stinging trace itself down the curve of his spine.

Feeling numb, Dean sinks down to his knees and pulls the box in front across the hardwood floor to the open space between his knees. He knows what he’s going to find, and he knows this is a box he should not open, but it feels as if his body moves of its own volition, and he pulls the flaps apart and stares down into the opening.

All the box contains is an outfit: a plain white t-shirt, a pair of ripped blue jeans that he knows he couldn’t fit into now, a pair of blue and green checkered boxers, a pair of socks, one with a hole in the heel, and a pair of blood-stained shoelaces. There are no shoes, he knows he kept those for a year afterward until he couldn’t bring himself to pull them on one more time.

Dean has killed monsters and bad people and vampires. He’s beaten angels and demons and God and the Devil themselves. He’s strong. He can take most people in a fight with minimal effort, and he is strong. He’s strong. Without thinking, Dean flexes the muscles of his arms, closes his eyes as he feels the contraction of the defined muscles beneath his skin. He’s strong. It’s obvious.

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from underwater, and Dean knows he needs to turn around and greet his brother, but all he can do is sit there, his arms flexed and so tense they hurt. He thinks he’s clenching his jaw as well, but he feels frozen.

“Hey, there you are. I was gonna ask if you wanted—”

Sam’s voice trails off as Dean doesn’t look at him, and when he speaks again a minute or so later, he sounds concerned.

“Dean? What’s up?”

Dean’s hands are still on the edges of the box, his eyes still fixed on the hem of the pair of boxers wrapped in the t-shirt. He can’t see it, but he knows there is blood on the boxers. Now it will be faded brown and flaking off, now it will be old, but when he put these things in the closet it had still been red, and he can see it in his mind’s eye.

He can feel Sam’s presence behind him. He hears his brother take one step, then two. He feels the warmth of Sam’s body as he enters the closet and steps closer.

When Sam rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder he flinches and stands up so quickly he feels dizzy, nauseous. He whirls around and finds that Sam is so close they’re almost chest-to-chest, his heart-shaped mouth open as he says something, his almond-shaped eyes wide with worry.

Dean doesn’t know why he isn’t moving, doesn’t know why he feels like he can’t breathe until he looks down and sees Sam’s arms around him, feels Sam pulling him close and drawing him in, feels a hand on the back of his head as he’s soothed like a child.

“I’m strong. I—I’m strong. I killed the vampires in Georgia and the werewolves in South Dakota. I’m strong.”

Dean notices he’s talking into Sam’s broad shoulder, but it doesn’t feel like his brain is connected to his mouth. There’s dried blood on the boxers and a hole in the collar of the t-shirt, he wants to say, but instead all that comes out is the pointless litany of “I’m strong.”

“I know you are,” Sam says. “We all know you are. What’s wrong? Why are you saying this?”

Dean is clinging to Sam, and his chest is so tight now that he starts to cry, pulling in helpless, gulping breaths of air as tears fall down his cheeks. He’s strong. He’s beaten the Devil. He’s been to Hell and had his body pulled apart. He’s strong.

“C’mere, let’s get out of here,” Sam says as he leads Dean carefully out of the closet and backs them both into the bedroom. He sits them both down on the bed.

Dean is no longer talking, and his tears are slowing. He’s reverted back to silence, and he lets Sam position him like a doll, lets him take Dean’s hand between both of his, lets him try to rub warmth into his numb fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks again.

Dean doesn’t answer, and when Sam lets his hands go and leaves him alone on the bed to look through the closet himself, Dean feels as if he’s being sucked down into some dark, quiet place deep inside his own body where all he can do is reside motionlessly. He’s no longer crying, no longer hysterical, no longer talking. He simply _is_.

When Sam sits back down beside him, Dean sees as if through cheesecloth that his face is broken, his eyes filled with pain.

“Is this about what happened when we were living in Arizona?” Sam whispers.

 _—Where were you, Dean? Dad_ told _you not to hunt with Eric. He’s a creep. You should have taken me with you, I know I could have helped—_

Dean doesn’t answer. He’s pliant and still as Sam wraps his arms around him, pulling him close. He feels Sam’s tears on his cheek, feels Sam’s warm breaths on his neck. Sam holds him tightly, and it feels as if he’s the only thing holding Dean together.

“Sam?” Dean says a few minutes later, his voice so hoarse he’s surprised he gets the word out.

“Yeah?” Sam asks immediately, withdrawing from Dean so he can hold him at arm’s length, his hands still splayed wide over Dean’s shoulders.

“It’s still in my head,” Dean says. “It’s always been in my head, I just…I’ve been pretending it wasn’t.”

“Do you…do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks, reaching up to take Dean’s face in his hands. His touch is soft, so soft. Dean closes his eyes, turning into the warmth of Sam’s palm.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“That’s okay,” Sam says quickly, pulling Dean into the solid warmth of his chest again, holding him so close Dean starts to lose track of where his body ends and Sam’s begins. “That’s okay. I just want you to do what you want, okay?”

Dean lets Sam hold him in the quiet, lets himself be held together by Sam’s tender hands as he has so many times before.

He isn’t alone in this, and with Sam, he never will be.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story. For whatever reason, when it comes to the small moments in my life and in my recovery, I often turn to the security of Sam and Dean's relationship. When I'm not feeling my best or something drags me back, it gives me a lot of comfort to picture Sam and Dean wading through the aftermath together.   
> I love them so much, they are my security.


End file.
